The old place was grand, he had to admit, but he had no real fond feelings for it. He had not had the happiest of childhoods, and then he had not had the happiest of beginnings as a man. He’d had the interior renewed, and had ensured the gardens were revamped as well, and had seen to the installation of a greenhouse.
It didn’t completely erase the memories of what it had been like to grow up here.
And you keep your son there. Locked up like the prisoner you once were.
He pushed that thought away.
It was different.
The driver manoeuvred the carriage to the front of the grand entrance hall. It was all stately pillars in marble. Not to his taste. And yet it was his. And it felt in many ways as if it spoke to a great many things that he was. A great many of the wrong things.
He assisted his wife from the carriage, unwilling to allow the footman to place a finger on her. His possessiveness was unfamiliar. He was accustomed to it in the context of an interlude with a woman. After all, that was a hallmark of the dynamic. But he was not accustomed to it when he was fully clothed. And he wondered... He wondered if he might find a strange sort of fulfilment from this. From caring for her. Having her.
Even if only in this regard.
He escorted her to the front of the house, and the door opened, his butler a firm and imposing presence.
Mrs Brown the housekeeper was standing just there, smiling warmly. ‘Your Grace,’ she said. And she made her way to Beatrice and clasped her hand. ‘Your Grace.’
‘Hello,’ Beatrice said, suddenly looking awestruck and shy.
‘Do not worry,’ he said.
And he could feel her calm next to him.
‘I am Mrs Brown. I’m the housekeeper.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Beatrice said.
And then he heard a great howl echoing through the halls. Beatrice startled.
‘No need for alarm,’ Mrs Brown said, smiling. ‘It is only that he’s having to change for dinner. He did not wish to stop what he was doing.’
‘William,’ he said. ‘That’s my son.’
‘Is he well?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Brown said. ‘He is quite all right. I assure you.’
But there was something worried behind her eyes, and he hated to see that.
As much as this...discontentment in his son chafed against something inside him.
‘Welcome to Maynard Park.’
CHAPTER SIX
Beatrice woke up, her heart thundering. It took her several moments to realise where she was. She was in Briggs’s house. She was Briggs’s wife.
She was sleeping alone. In an unfamiliar bedchamber. And she could hear a sound that was like howling.
She turned over and put her pillow over her head, trying to drown out the haunting sound, sleep tangling with reality until she was on the moors running from a ghost, rather than safe beneath the bedclothes.
When she woke her eyes felt swollen and she felt gritty and bruised.
She took breakfast in the morning room, and did not see Briggs.
She had a small meeting with Mrs Brown, standing in the hall nearest the entry, and made arrangements to plan the menu for the week.
Beatrice had to admit she found that cheering, and hoped that she found the food at Maynard to be to her liking. It was not as if she was fussy, but she enjoyed nice foods rather a lot.
Her pleasures in life had been small, always, but very deeply enjoyed.
She went into the library and found a copy of Emma, which she had read before but had quite enjoyed. She tucked it under her arm and there was an attractive illustrated compendium of birds, and she added that too.
She took them back to her room and looked around the space. It was elegant, the walls a blue silk, with matching blue silk on the bed, trimmed with gold. The ornate canopy had heavy curtains, though she couldn’t see why she should need to draw curtains back in this isolated room that only ever contained herself or her maid.
She deposited the books at the foot of her bed and went back out into the hall.
And that was when she saw him for the first time.
The boy.
He had unruly brown hair and slim shoulders. He was very slight, his expression sulky.
William.
This must be William.
The boy turned and went back down the hall. Towards the sound of the late-night howling, she realised.
* * *
Over the next few days she spotted the boy in the house a few times, but never Briggs, who seemed to ensconce himself in his study at the early morning and not...un-ensconce himself until well after she was ready to retire for the evening.
And sometimes at night, she heard that howling.
One word came to her each time she saw that child.
Loneliness.
She knew it well. She was living it now.
When she crawled into bed on her fourth night at Maynard, her fourth night as a wife, she tried to read Emma. And could not.
Because in those words she looked for any...anything she might be able to recognise. Longings, feelings. She could not...find herself in those pages.
Briggs did not want her. Not really. He did not care if she was here or at Bybee House.
She felt no giddy joy over marriage and could not care at all about the marital prospects of the silly girls in the novel.
She set it aside and stared at the ornate ceiling of the canopy, her eyes tracing the lines of the gold crest there.
Was this to be her life? Not any better or altered than that life at Bybee House?
No. She would...she would not allow it.
And that was when the howling started.
She got up from the bed without thinking and raced to the door. She cracked it open and held herself still there, waiting. The howling grew louder. And she walked out of the room, making her way down the cavernous hall. It was a huge home. Not unlike Bybee House. Though less Grecian in style. She had noted the frescoes painted on the walls; they were a bit more vivid than the ones to be found there.
But it wasn’t the frescoes that had her full attention now. It was that sound. Like a wounded animal.
William. She knew it was William.
She raced towards it, not thinking. And pushed the door open. It was another bedchamber. A child’s room. And the child was on the floor, dressed in his bed clothes, weeping and thrashing.
He had not met her, not yet. They had only seen each other from a distance, and she hesitated to make a move, for she would be a stranger to him. But no one else was here.
So she raced towards him and dropped to her knees. ‘William,’ she said.
But he said nothing in response. He only kept screaming and crying, twisting to get away from her. It took her a moment to realise that he was sleeping. Sleeping, and lost to reason. Lost to any sort of reach.
‘William,’ she said softly, reaching her hand towards him, her heart contracting painfully.
She had never experienced anything like this. But when she was a child her body had been in agony sometimes. And she had felt as if no one in the room could truly reach her. As if she was living in her own space, where there was only pain. And she had learned to place herself there firmly, to find a way to endure it. But it was always lonely. There was never connection there. There was never a space to be comforted.
There was only enduring.
And she broke, for this boy. For this boy who was experiencing that now.
This boy she saw alone.
She lurched forward, just as he retreated to the wall, hitting himself against it. She grabbed hold of him and pulled him against her body, holding his arms down, holding him still.
‘Be still,’ she said, making a shushing noise. ‘Be still.’ She held on to him tightly. ‘You are well. You are safe.’
It took a time, but eventually the screams quieted. Eventually, he surrendered to the way that she held him.
He was not alone now.
‘Be at peace, William,’ she whispered.
Silence descended, finally. He was damp with sweat and breathing hard, his exhaustion palpable.
She held him against her breast, swaying back and forth, some instinct guiding her.
The door opened, and she could see it was Mrs Brown.
‘Your Grace,’ she said. ‘I apologise. You should not have been disturbed. It took me a wee while to rouse myself...’
‘Does this happen often?’ she asked, already knowing it did, for this was not the first time she’d heard him.
‘Yes. He has nightmares.’
‘I have heard him...upset like this during the day as well.’
‘It is not the same. He is easily...angered by changes in his routine.’
‘I see.’
‘This should not have fallen to you. It is my responsibility to see to him at night. His governess needs rest. She is in a room far from him for that reason, after her day she is tired.’
‘I do not mind,’ she said.
‘Often, when he is here, His Grace sees to him. He must be in his study still.’
As far as she could tell, His Grace was only ever in his study.
She was relieved to hear he did see to his son. She had yet to see the two of them together.
‘It is all right,’ she said, stroking the boy’s head. She picked him up, his form limp. And she returned him to his bed. ‘Does he usually sleep after this?’
‘Yes. There may be another episode, but typically one is all he will have on a difficult night.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. But I will listen for him.’
‘If you insist, Your Grace,’ Mrs Brown said, clearly at her limit with how much she was willing to argue with the new Duchess.
‘Yes.’
She was filled with a sense of purpose. For she had comforted the boy. And she could comfort the boy. She might not ever be a wife to Briggs, not truly. But she could be a mother to this boy. Because she had understood him in that moment. It might be an entirely different circumstance, and entirely different...everything, but she understood. On a deep, profound level. For he lived in a space that people could not reach him in, and she had spent much of her childhood doing the same.
Being ill. Being shut up inside.
Tonight had been like witnessing a person who was shut up inside themselves. She knew what that was like as well.
As she had said. A spirit that was held back by the body she was in.
She waited a while, and then she returned to her room, her heart rate slowing. And as she drifted off to sleep, she made a plan. A plan for the next day. She would not simply be a ward. She was going to take charge of her life. She was going to find out what she could do. What she wanted.
And she would begin with William.
* * *
The next morning at breakfast time, she went in search of the child.
She found him in the nursery with his governess, sitting at a small table and looking furious.
‘William...’ The woman was saying his name in a cajoling manner.
‘Good morning,’ Beatrice said, coming into the room.
The boy did not look at her. ‘William,’ she said, saying his name purposefully. ‘Good morning.’
He looked up in her direction. Though his eyes did not meet hers. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘You had a difficult sleep last night,’ she said.
His expression went black and he turned his head away. ‘Who are you?’
‘Did your father speak to you about the fact he was getting married?’
The boy did not answer.
‘Did your father tell you that he was getting married?’ She restated the question.
The boy nodded, his head still angled away from her.
‘I’m his wife. I am your stepmother. You may call me Beatrice,’ she said.
He lowered his head, his focus back on his breakfast.
Beatrice moved to him, and sat down. He looked up, startled by her presence. His eyes connected with hers for a moment before darting away. It was as if it was difficult for him to look straight at her.
‘I like to swing,’ she said, feeling as if there had to be a way to capture his interest. ‘I like to read. And I like to hide in the garden. What do you like?’
He didn’t say a thing. But he stood up and went to his bedside table and opened a drawer, pulling out a small box. He opened it and held it out to her.
Inside was a small collection of cards, with pictures on them.
‘This is the Colosseum,’ he said. ‘It is in Rome. It was inaugurated in AD 80. This is the Pantheon,’ he said, showing her the next card.
He continued showing her sites from all over Europe, with a special focus on those found in Italy. His knowledge was breathtaking. He knew dates and locations, precise details. And he seemed perfectly happy to give her each and every one.
‘Do you wish to go to these places?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ the boy answered.
‘So, this is a box of your dreams,’ she said, smiling.
His brow creased. ‘It is a box of cards.’
He looked so like his father then. And the realisation sent a strange sort of twist through Beatrice’s midsection. He was part of Briggs. It was undeniable. She could see it so clearly now.
‘Well, they are very nice cards,’ she said.
She sat with the boy, who said nothing more voluntarily throughout his breakfast. His governess stood in the corner, watching her with hard interest. It was not entirely accepting, but she had a feeling that the woman was protective of the boy. Beatrice herself had no real experience with children, so she did not know what she should expect of the child. He seemed different, though. That much she knew.
She wondered if she did. For she had certainly not spent much time in the company of those who were not her family. She had her few very close friends, and that was all. She did not spend time out in broader society.
‘William,’ she said. ‘I should like to see the grounds today. Remember how I told you I like gardens?’
‘To hide,’ he said.
‘Yes. But, also to walk in them. Is there a spot in the garden here that you favour best?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘I see.’ She tried to think of another way to say it. ‘Is there a place that is interesting? Where you can tell me about the flowers?’
Something in his expression changed. ‘Yes. There is a garden and it has statues. I like that spot best. It reminds me of Rome.’
‘Excellent. Shall you and I take a picnic for our lunch this afternoon?’
‘I do not eat outside,’ he said.
‘Well, perhaps you might try?’
‘I do not eat outside.’
‘Should you like to eat outside?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘All right. Then we shall try it. And if you don’t like it, we don’t have to do it.’
He looked thoughtful about this. ‘All right.’
‘Then you and I shall see each other this afternoon.’
She stood and walked out of the nursery, and heard the footsteps of his governess behind.
‘Master William does not like interruptions to his schedule,’ she said.
‘No, I imagine he does not. But I would like to begin a new schedule. I would like to spend time with him.’
Beatrice had no experience of running a household, but she had watched her brother and her mother do it in decent fashion for a number of years. She did not feel fully confident in her position, but one thing she did feel confident in was her connection to the boy. It was loneliness. It ec
hoed inside her, and she knew that it echoed inside him as well. She knew that he felt the same sort of isolation that she did. It did not matter if they were the same, or different, those feelings she knew.
And she would not rattle around this house doing nothing. She could not do that.
‘Perhaps we should speak to His Grace.’
‘You are welcome to speak to His Grace,’ Beatrice said. ‘I am not sure where he is. I am not sure what his routine is. I only know that I must make my own. And I should like it to include William.’
The governess was wary. ‘William can be a difficult child,’ she said.
‘I’m continually warned of this,’ she said. ‘I held him last night when he was overtaken by terror in his sleep. I understand. When I arrived he was quite upset. But I do not think that makes him difficult.’
‘I love him,’ his governess said. ‘That is not what I mean.’
‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘And I wish for you to believe me. I do not wish to toy with this child. But I have married His Grace, and I... I must find a reason to be here.’ She had not meant to say that. Had not meant to expose herself in such a fashion. Or their marriage. For it was nobody’s business that it was not a true union.
Though they had forgone the traditional honeymoon trip. And indeed any sort of honeymoon phase.
She did not know how they might express that, but she had a feeling it was not as they had been these past days.
‘I want to be a mother to this boy.’
‘Forgive me, Your Grace,’ the governess said. ‘His own mother did not care for him, and I am quite protective.’
Her stomach went tight. ‘My father did not care for me,’ she said. ‘I was blessed to have a wonderful mother, however. But even so, I know what it is to have a parent who does not care. And to lose that parent quite early. I do not wish to cause him harm. And I promise you that should he become upset, I will bring him to you.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace. What am I to do with my time?’
‘Whatever you wish,’ Beatrice said. ‘Take some time to rest. Or read.’
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